Bloody Gutters : Sin City Shorts
by DeadAccount092
Summary: A collection of short stories from the grimy streets of Sin City.
1. This Job's a Favor

**# 1 : This Job's a Favor**

I look through the scope for the fourth time in the last minute and see what I've been seein' the entire goddamn night.

Mr. Big Money still hasn't left.

I know he's still in that dingy shit pit they're trying to pass off as an apartment. I can see him and the Torrence girl still going at it hard and heavy through the open window.

The Kalashnikov I'm holding isn't exactly the most accurate thing out there.

I don't really care though.

It's good enough.

Plus people walking around in this dump holding a fancy sniper rifle get noticed. A nice common gun like this Russian trashcan is perfect for the job.

Kind of fucked if you think about it.

Unfortunately that's all I've had to do so far. Think. And Watch.

I'm a pretty competent shooter. I learned the trade the hard way, in Uncle Sam's latest fuck fiasco they still lie about and call 'peace keepings' and other such Democratic bullshit.

It's been a year since my discharge and I gotta tell you, I'm pretty proud. I kinda thought I'd wind up a drunk vet, down at the dives and shit bars those kind of poor sons of bitches take to.

Wind up like my old man.

Been doin' good so far though.

I've had a few nights where the darkness and silence choke me and I lie awake and remember patrols and fire fights and picking my buddies remains up off some god forsaken sand blasted highway.

Got me work though and I'm usin' my G.I. benefits to put myself through school.

"He still screwin' that bitch?"

The idiot behind me speaks up. For a moment the sound of greasy snack food being inhaled disappears as the fattenin' bastard pulls his ass off the couch and walks up beside me to look in Mr. Big Money's room.

"Ohh ho ho he he! Fuck me fuck me fuck me!"

I don't know his name. I only know that Mr. Torrence hired him to help back me up. I don't need help, especially from an idiot like this one beside me, but I guess when I offered my services for free old man Torrence probably got a little confused.

What?

You thought I was a merc, some sick assassin that makes messes rich folks can't be bothered to make?

No, I got real work baggin' groceries at the local SaveWay.

This job's a favor.

"Fuck me fuck me fuck me true!"

The idiot is slappin' his knees about his own shitty poem and laughing that stupid horse laugh.

His pistols bounce and clank together with each convulsion.

The guy is decked out worse than Rambo. We both watched Mr. Big Money long enough to know he only has three regular body guards.

One on the nights he meets the Torrence girl.

Yet he's packin' like there's gonna be an army knocking on our door. I don't even know how he's standing up with all that lethal packed onto his chubby frame.

"Man o' live!" He pulls out a cigarette, lights it and offers me a drag. I refuse.

"Man o' live," He continues; "Gotta give the old sumbitch this! He's still got quite a bit o' screw left innem! Look at him jus' rail the jesus outta that Torrence bitch!"

Yes, I've had to look at that for the last five hours.

I'm not gettin' any pleasure out of it.

The girl's name is Cindi. Despite the I on the end she isn't no slut. She goes to my College.

Nice girl, great bod, one in a million beauty. And a great mind too, but that's an asset I doubt Mr. Big Money concerns himself with.

I only found out about her and Mr. Big Money's bi-weekly meetings from her old man.

I gotta admit right off the bat…I love Cindi. You might have guessed it but in case you haven't there it is.

I could tell she liked me too, but Cindi always kept me at arm's length. I never knew why until a month ago when Mr. Torrence came up to me in the middle of a busy street and spilled the beans.

_Do you love Cindi?_

I would have given anything to see my face. An old guy who looks too timid for Suburbia let alone Basin City comes up to some scar faced punk and asks him if he loves his daughter?

Priceless.

I said I did.

He told me the story.

Cindi's twin was deep in Mr. Big Money's pockets already. Real deep.

Cocaine, ecstasy, liquor, smokes. Danni was a big time partier with a small timers wallet. It was only a matter of time before a prime young looker like that would get swept up by some rich ol' fuck.

Only Mr. Big Money was apparently not the sleazy ol' horn dog that is typical of the Sin City nine digit club members.

He knew Danni had a twin. A clean one.

I don't know what his problem is. I think it's just some kind of power syndrome. He kept Danni as a pet and hunted after the hard to get Cindi.

Mr. Torrence cried as he finished explainin'. I can't blame him.

_She loves her sister. She loves her despite her flaws. She'd…She is doing everything she can for her._

To get Danni out of Mr. Big Money's pockets Cindi had to get in.

She did it, bless her heart. She doesn't have Danni's habits of course, but she still has to perform her sister's functions.

I've had to watch this shit, helpless, for a month.

Watchin' the girl you love go through hell takes more than I can explain.

"Oh man looks like this round's done."

Rambo beside me is leering through his 'nocs at the apartment window.

I thrust my eye to the scope and look.

Sure enough, Mr. Big Money is up and at 'em, throwing on his thousand dollar suit over his bright colored grape smugglers.

Cindi's on the bed, sweaty and drained and despaired and I silently vow to make Mr. Big Money's funeral closed casket.

I move my sight to the apartment exit.

"He's goin' down now."

Two clicks of the safety and the Kalashnikov is ready to deal some death. I pull the hammer back and get into killin' mode.

The body guard comes out first. Mr. Big Money is pretty cunning indeed. The guy isn't one of those black suited ear piece jack offs most rich fucks like. He's dressed nice and subtle. If you didn't know who he was you'd never guess that the man passin' you had a Desert Eagle tucked away under that windbreaker.

The body guard is quick. He moves with a purpose, hopping into the used but clean Civic and bringing it around for the currently hidden Mr. Big Money.

My vision's glued to the darkened doorway.

Come on you sick sonofabitch.

Come on.

The Civic pulls up. The door creaks open.

Mr. Big Money walks out, cell phone in hand.

I know it's Cindi on the other line.

Mr. Big Money stops and his face goes white. My crosshair centers on the right eye.

I don't know what's being said to him, but as his gaze looks up it seems to stare right back at me through the scope and I can fathom a pretty good assumption as to what my beautiful, lovely, innocent Cindi is whispering into it.

_BRAKK!!_

The retort of the Kalashnikov is loud, ear shattering. The muzzle flash erupts past the curtains and out the window.

Everyone within a three block radius just heard justice going down. And where it came from.

"GOT HIM MAN! DEAD FUCKIN' CENTER TRIED AND TRUE!"

Rambo is ecstatic. Happy that a paying job he didn't have to do is finally concluded no doubt.

I stand up and peer out into the street. I can see a twitching Mr. Big Money. I can almost smell the shit from his releasing bowels up here.

The Civic's door is skewered open, the bodyguard more than likely already on the third level by now.

Cindi's lights are off.

Don't worry baby, I'm comin'. Mr. Big Money's stink will be all over you but I don't care. I love you Cindi. It's all for you.

Just one thing left.

Rambo is headed to the door.

I drop the Kalashnikov and reach into my coat. My fingers easily find the blocky metal hidden inside.

"Come on bro let's get outta here bef-"

I don't let Rambo finish.

The taser is out and shoved into his back. I set it to full burst. The idiot probably doesn't even know what hit him.

My hands move with purpose. Rambo is muttering fast and incoherent but he doesn't stop me taking off all his guns. I do it and toss them uselessly aside. And I hit him, hard, before giving him one final, parting shock.

Mr. Torrence probably didn't know why I told him to hire Rambo, but he doesn't need to. The jerk still had most of the funds stuffed into his fanny pack.

I leave the convulsing mess and slip out the door, slipping it slightly open, and quickly duck into the next empty apartment.

I sit there in silence and listen as one set of footsteps comes racing down the hall. Mr. Big Money's bodyguard really was good. He goes directly into the room. I think I can hear Rambo say something but it's quickly silenced by a satisfying bone to jaw noise.

More footsteps come running.

I can hear their muffled voices as Rambo is dragged away sobbing.

I'll be there in a minute Cindi.


	2. Gasoline Fuelled Death

**#2 Gasoline Fuelled Death**

How'd we wind up in this mess?

"He dead?"

"I don't think so."

The two gentlemen currently occupying the room with me banter back and forth about how my health is holding up.

"Well if he ain't dead fuckin' plug 'im and make 'im!"

Aw…thinking of you too.

The shorter, younger scared shitless lad is one of Jack Connolly's boys from the Docks.

Tommy.

I managed to catch his name before I caught his bullet.

"No way. We need him alive."

The other is from the chink area of Basin City. Ralph. He's a good kid, ran packages for me a few times before getting in with those goddamn Yakuzas. Least he doesn't practice Buddhism or Confusionism or whatever the hell those squinty eyed bonsai yellers worship nowadays.

At least he's vouching for me.

"Alive? Fuck fo'?!"

"He's a Duke you Irish pug. They'll be looking for him. I'm not going to be blamed for killing him."

Tommy raises the cooling barrel of the revolver at Ralph and I wish I had the strength to pull out my own Magnum and blast the punk across the Projects.

"Ya won't be blamed now will ya?! I shot the cock suckin' muppet an' you jus' stood there wit' that dumb look o' yer face!"

Ralph's not scared and he has no reason to be. I can't see well because of the blood running into my eyes but I can hear Tommy shaking. I count the quick whiffs of his breath and I can't help but smile.

How'd I let this scared little boy get the drop on me?

I remember it then. Me and Ralph hobbling down a blood smeared alley. And a shadow coming out from a doorway…

Damn. An accident. That's all.

From outside there's another rattle.

"Aw shit!"

Ralph is forgotten.

Together they move toward the window and I'm also forgotten for now.

"Aw shit aw shit aw shit they're comin' again!"

They are the most notorious gang in the Projects.

The Gutter Children.

Orphans by choice their initiation was to off their own family.

Weapon of choice; Chainsaw.

There were hardly any gangs left in this city that didn't use guns but none of them were respected. Except the Gutter Children.

_CRASH!!_

The two of them smash open the room's only window. Outside the tell tale roar of gasoline fuelled death brays against the blood stained walls of the housing block.

_POP! FHACK! POP! FHACK! POP! FHACK!_

Tommy and Ralph answer with their own instruments of killing. You can hear the Gutter Children outside fall back.

"Fo' fuck! I'm down a me las' six."

"Nine here."

I hear Tommy move toward me.

"An' 'im? Wonder if'n he got any blaster left."

"No. He dropped it while running."

It was true, but it wouldn't have mattered. It was empty. I didn't remember that little fact until Ralph mentioned it. Getting shot in the head by a .38 kind of screws up your memory.

Your muscles too, apparently, because I couldn't check anyways there's no more strength left in my arms.

"We're fucked then! Good an' proper!"

"Goddamn you!"

No kid, don't do it.

"What?!"

Ralph has his .45 raised toward a cowering Tommy.

Don't do it kid. He's not worth it. Use your head.

"It's because of you," I can't stop Ralph my lips won't move; "It's because you and your goddamn Irish wannabe gang wanted to deal in the Projects!"

"Oi! Oi! Ya shut yer goddamn chink mouth! Yer boys wanted a meet 'ere as well! Don't ya go blamin' me lads you-"

The hammer of the .45 makes an ominous _CLICK! _as Ralph gets it ready for some action.

_DON'T DO IT!_

The scream in my head doesn't even echo silently into reality. Why am I so goddamn useless?

"Please mate. I-I-I'm sorry! I jus' don't wanna die in this shitty place…"

I tense up. I wait for the shot. Damn the blood in my eyes. Damn my useless mouth.

The hammer clicks back in, slowly, and Ralph doesn't kill Tommy.

Thank Christ for those little miracles.

"I don't either."

Ralph flops down on the sofa and it lets out a metallic squeak that reminds me too much of the cattle chutes in a slaughter house.

"What in Mary's good name happened?"

But this is a slaughter house, isn't it?

The walls reek of old death. It's different from the fresh stuff splattered around outside. If you didn't know the smell you probably wouldn't recognize it. Most don't. People associate death with a still body. How it happened might cross their minds but it's brief.

"It should be obvious even to you by now."

It's the body, or dies, that really concern people. People are scared to death of cemeteries but not car intersections. Forty-Five thousand people a year aren't killed in cemeteries so I have to wonder about that.

"Set up?"

These two probably don't even know what it is...but I do. I can smell it over my own blood that feels like it's now caked to the underside of my sniffers. I spent two tours of Uncle Sam's version of duty in that Asian paradise sniffing that smell.

"Why else would the deal be on the edge of Gutter Town."

Sure there was plenty of fresh American blood to whiff, but down there in the jungle you could catch the scents of the centuries. French, Chinese, Mongolian and probably a hundred other empires and tribes that had their go. That green place wasn't virgin for probably more than 5 minutes after creation and laying there in your foxhole under a silver moon, one that's probably seen a little too much bloodshed, you could smell it all.

"Neutral territory ain't it? A nice right an' fancy place 'tween our two glorious gangs."

Ralph laughs, but if he could smell what I'm smellin' he wouldn't be.

"There are plenty of places more neutral and far better for transactions then the edge of Gutter Town."

"Then 'im? Why waste a Duke over a l'il trouble wit' us then?"

Because over all the old blood and rust I can smell something sweet. Something that's always smelled of death to me.

"Him? He's just an accident. They'll probably make an effort to rescue him but they probably didn't realize who they were making the deal with. That Duke lying there likes to oversee his business personally. More heads then ours are probably going to roll over this one."

I have to hand it to these Gutter Children. I use to be like these two; thinking they're nothing but psychopaths and crazies.

But they're more than that.

"Oh. Well fine then, we jus' wait 'ere for a rescue an' pray 'em Gutter fucks don't come and roll our own 'eads for us in a mean time."

They're killers alright. Killers made. But worse than that. They're smart about their business.

"That's the plan. Something this big shouldn't take too long to go up the ladder."

Poor Ralph. I like you kid. But you're day dreaming. Because for the last minute I've been smelling can after can of gas being poured around the house.

And I just smelt some sulfur.


	3. Level Fourteen

**# 3 : Level Fourteen**

I'm workin' my way up, stair well by stair well, floor by floor.

Below me the heat of the fire I started on the first few floors wafts up and somewhere in it I can hear the devil laughing.

But that's all right.

My jaw still hurts from the goon that got the drop on me with a crowbar one floor down but it's fairly minor compared to the rest of the wounds I've suffered.

Four big gun holes in my body, right arm left leg left shoulder and dead center gut. I'm bleeding somethin' awful but I never expected to get out of this situation alive. I've even got a few knife wounds but none of them stuck in so they don't really count.

Just scratches.

The next stairwell is blocked off. Looks like the goons inside here are finally starting to smarten up. I wish I could be there when the big man of the Lamboni crime family hears that it wasn't an army that tore up his legion of corrupt cops and politicians. Just one man.

I know I'm an endangered species. Soon to be extinct. One of the last few good cops left in this forsaken town.

A vision of the countless dead partners I've endured run through my mind and my grip tightens around the Benelli .12 Gauge I'm dealin' my justice with.

"Level Fourteen."

Reading it aloud its almost unbelievable to my ears.

Two more levels and I'm there.

The rats are trapped.

There's a door here that leads down a service hallway. There are elevators in there but they switched the power to them off a long time ago; when I was still on the fifth. However there's a smaller service stairwell that I know won't be blocked off.

The rats above still want to escape.

I kick open the door and see that there's already been a welcoming committee set up for me.

_BRAKKABRAKKABRAKKABRAKKA!!_

AK rounds come flying at me from behind a shoddy barrier of tables and chairs. I hit the deck and return some solid slugs back.

_KOOM! KOOM! KOOM!_

A big spray of red mists out from behind one of the three inch holes I leave in the barrier. There's no scream so I know it's a kill shot.

Goon's always scream when they get hit.

The other is still alive and kicking though. He forgoes accuracy and just holds his machine gun above the barrier like some African rebel and fires blindly.

_BRAKKABRAKKABRAKKABRAKKA!!_

The rounds whiz above me harmlessly.

I take a breather and wait for him to get it out of his system.

_BRAKKABRAKKA CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK CLICK!!_

I'm already up at the first one. I can hear him swearing frantically. My Kevlar weighted footsteps pound on the industrial cement.

"NO!"

He screams and if this was a movie the sound of it would have been some comedic relief to this viciousness. The goon drops his machine gun and goes for it.

Not more than four feet from the barrier I open up with the automatic shotgun.

_KOOM KOOM KOOM!!_

I cut the creep in half and jump over the barrier.

"Jem-bi-lef-ff!"

The torso is still crawling, spewing out incomprehensible gibberish. A trail of blood and guts begin to stretch out from the severed but still twitching legs.

_CLICK! KA-CHICK! CLICK!_

I try the Benelli to put the guy out of his misery but it's empty.

Let him suffer. He's got a mom and pa, sure enough, but so did Steele. So did Huxley, and Feirdeman and Rogers. They were all good cops; their only crime being downright human decency.

The first goon's head is missing but I don't let it bother me. I just strip him of all the guns and ammo he has.

One Uzi, two mags, a 9mm with only one and the AK with two.

It's not enough to deal with all the rats on the sixteenth…but I'm more then certain there's enough weapons to be found on the next floor.

I pass the still crawling mess on the floor and duck around the corner into the service stairwell. This high rise is cookie cutter and with weeks of planning and preparation it's all mapped out in my head.

Just as I predicted the stairwell is unobstructed.

A quick jog up leads me smack face to a pale green door with L 15 painted on it in red.

Through the chicken wire glass I can see it's a lobby. A gun fighter's paradise.

It's just one big room, elevator at one end hidden stairwell at the other. There are massive pillars of marble blocks topped with giant potted plants. Overhead, massive crystal studded chandeliers light up the place in a golden, welcoming glow.

I can't seen any goons but I know they're in there.

"Oh!"

I'm embarrassed at the moan that escapes me. I drop my AK and grab my gut. Something inside is broken really, really bad. No arteries have been hit because I'd have been long did if they'd had but that doesn't mean a round didn't bounce off some bone and burrow its way into a kidney.

The pain was awful before but now it feels like I just digested a ball of barbwire.

"JESUS CHRIST!"

I can't help but scream. Forget a ball of barbwire. It feels like a balloon of razor blades just popped open in my intestine. I can't keep fightin' but it's not as though I can just stop either.

_BRIIIINNNNGGGG!!_

The sprinklers overhead kick into action and the fire alarms start going off. This high rise was built to contain the fire and not just flood every level with water unless absolutely necessary. That means that the blaze has just reached the ninth level at least. I can even slowly feel the metal stairs start heating up.

I guess it could be possible to just wait here for the fire to catch up and let the rat's burn. I'd trashed the Helicopter on the roof with a Light Fifty from across the street before I came bursting into the lobby with guns blazing.

That doesn't mean another one couldn't reach it before the flames hit the sixteenth. I know that there'll be no fire rescue. Every building in a two block radius is on fire. I took my time with this attack. I'm not guilty about burning down the business district of Downtown. It was all owned by one gang or family anyways.

I've spent too much time on this to not be sure. I've seen too many clean guys picked off to pad the purse of the higher ups.

"Ugh…"

I pick up the machine gun and get to my feet groaning the entire time. A fresh squirt of blood visibly escapes each of my wounds and there's even a little river running out the side of my mouth.

I open up door fifteen and dive into the golden room. I'm met by a hail of gunfire.

The marble splatters and sprays apart as a dozen different guns rake it apart.

The floor is getting hotter and somewhere in it I can hear the devil laughing.

But that's alright.


	4. Call me whatever you want

**# 4 : Call me whatever you want**

I sit there in his chair and wonder what must be going through the man's mind.

I don't know his first name but I know he's important enough to earn five figures off.

And I know that he's surprised as shit to turn the lights on in his office and find what he must now be thinking of as a pretty little red headed present left by some of the good boys he shares this pristine 'scraper with sitting behind his desk.

"Well well what are you doing here pretty?"

His initial shock and fear is gone. It's replaced by a shit eating grin I've seen on clients too many times before.

I hate it but I just smile my big pearlies right back at his and snuff what's left of my cigar out in his formerly unused ashtray.

"Me? I'm here for the party."

He closes the door behind him and flicks off the bright fluorescents overhead, leaving us in the corn coloured bask of the desk lamp. It shines off my pins that drape out from underneath my skirt and across the desk; and with satisfaction I see he's noticed them as well.

"That so?" He doesn't hesitate. Men with money in this town rarely do. He struts over and a moisturized hand slides up from my ankle toward my thighs. I tease him, letting him get a little past the knee and then slowly wheel away.

Somehow his shit eater gets bigger. They're all like big kids. It's a sad state of affairs; considering he controls the money of the people that run this town.

He's lovin' every minute of this.

"To what…who do I owe this pleasure?"

"Someone with the goods thinks you're doing a good job is all sir," I answer in my sultriest voice possible.

I glide out of his chair and turn my back toward the window letting him get a good look at the exposed back curves. This white piece of cloth some women would consider a dress barely covers up the main attractions but it doesn't take much imagination to see my humps in their bare glory.

His breath quickens and I can almost hear him wooping for joy in that protruding forehead of a noggin.

"Don't be so formal pretty. You can call me Irvin, or Big Daddy, or whatever you want."

"Is that what you want me to call you?"

"What?"

"Big Daddy?"

"…Yeah!"

Irvin's voice is low and quivering.

I know I'm sexy. It's sounds pretentious but it isn't actually a big deal to me. I just got dealt a good card appearance wise and through pain staking trial and error I've figured out how to maximize my god given advantages.

It helps a lot in my line of work.

"Alright Big Daddy," A soft spin nearly blows him off his feet; "My name's Jessi, but you can call me whatever you want."

He beats over and pulls me into him hard. Those slick hands run up and down my bareback and I let him smell me. Irvin's odours of stale sweat and expensive wine waft over my own potent perfume but I ignore it.

"Well my pretty lady, I know a nice little angel like you doesn't come cheap…but what do you think about skipping over the romance and getting right to the fun stuff?"

I pull back and smile into Irvin's hungry eyes.

"I don't mind, but I think your wife would have something to say."

The well kept face twitches and for a second the smile disappears. But it's back quick and Irvin has a good laugh.

Why not? To him I'm just a whore. Insert coin, open, insert member and repeat. I'm not a girlfriend or mistress. I'm a high five at the water cooler. I'm a geriatric memory. If I'm good 

enough I might even be the image for a wank session or the girl he dreams about on the rare occasions he pays his wife Merna any attention.

"Never mind about her little girl."

"It's hard not to;" I reply; "When it was her that paid me for this."

Much to my amusement a thunderclap visibly goes through his head.

"What did you say?!"

A quick flip of my arms and Irvin's pudging mass squirms backwards then into and over that leather chair.

_CRACK!_

It splits apart.

"Fuck!"

Something tells me the 'romance' is all outta his head now.

"Fuck!"

The action messed something up in his back and poor old Irvin is spinning around on the floor desperately trying to push himself up. Those manicured fingers slip and slide all over the polished mahogany.

Calmly I trot over to my bag lying on the office sofa that Irvin probably thought was going to be the center piece of tonight's festivities. Inside is my kit and the camera that Merna gave me just for the occasion.

"You bitch! You whore! You…you…"

I set the camera up like instructed and then spread my tools across the desk. Their silver gleams fiercely under the corn coloured haze of the lamp. My little babies know they're getting fed tonight.

"You cum bucket!"

There's no helping it. I laugh out loud at the feminine screech that just escaped Irvin's lips. No doubt Merna would be laughing too in a few hours.

As the scalpel is held up under the lamp Irvin gains some survival strength and hops forward, crashing into the side of his desk forehead first. The bottom drawer is slid open before I even registered what just happened and Irvin is now holding his back with the left hand and a nickel plated .44 with the other.

"Think this is funny do you you stupid little tramp?! Laugh up! Laugh it up! I'm gonna turn those pretty little lips of yours inside out! When I'm done with you you're gonna be too big to cock suck an Elephant!"

Scalpel in hand I cautiously move forward.

Irvin talks big but it's obvious this is his first time actually defending himself. I know he's killed before. Cowards trophies, true, but he's no stranger to pulling that trigger. He's never been in this position though. Usually his enemies are wounded, surrounded; and helpless.

Enemies like his recently deceased partners. Or Merna's brother.

Or her son.

"Stop it right there bitch. Stop it. I will blow you the fuck away."

"I know you would 'Big Daddy'."

I step forward.

_CLICK!_

Tears run down Irvin's face as the truth he's suspected is confirmed.

_CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK! CLICK!_

With each dry fire of the emptied chambers I step closer and closer to him. Around the fifth cycle he drops the useless piece.

"I'll pay you double! Triple! I'll write you a blank check!"

"And make it out to cum bucket?"

I take in his tears and begin removing the only part of his manhood left.


	5. Black Abyss

**# 5 : Black Abyss**

It's a fascinating display.

Watching the low life's and scum who frequent this watering hole come and go, gulping down crystal after crystal of bitter inebriation whilst the seductress's ply their talents on the stage, the pits of front full of the wrenches who scream and bale like caged canines coveting a carcass.

The hip swayers on show are nothing short of fine portrayals of femininity, and I would be lying by not confessing the truth that I do yearn to caress their corrupt curves, to tenderly taste of their wares.

And perhaps I might have chosen one of them tonight. T'would be easy enough...regardless of the heavily scarred madonus hunched over on his bar stool, thirsting eyes drinking in the leather clad whore in front.

Marv the locals call him.

He sweats of the sweet copper. A hundred different victims mist off the battled hands, one as recently as this sundown.

A peculiar individual, the self appointed praetorian of this theatreous charade.

Marv.

A simple name for a simple, albeit powerful, pleb.

There is no terror to be told of him. Only a cautious respect. Doubtless he shares the same sensibility with myself. I cannot help but smile at that thought. he knows there's more to the portrayed enigma of my character then what I allow to reflect off the surface. This Marv and I have observed each other several nights while the dogs pulsed and pushed around us.

He sees that when I occupy my corner the tables and booths around remain empty. He also knows that I order just one drink during my occupancy, and that it's always full when I leave.

He is foolish but no fool and although quite slow the man knows I am not typical clientele.

Ah.

It seems some hunters sense has kindled in that marbled cranium of his. His attention has been turned from the dance to me.

Our gazes meet and I smile at him from behind shaded spectacles.

Marv chugs his drink and slams the glass down on the wood without a glance.

He rises, eyes never leaving mine.

Before he can langer over to my table a fortuitous fool attempts to jump the stage and it seems I lose my status as priority. The hulk turns, coat tail breezing at the motion, and grabs the scoundrel by the neck with both large hands.

A scuffle turns into a brawl and soon the whole cunny pit is festering with fisty cups.

Not tonight, potential adversary.

If fate has us cross violently, then so bet it, but tonight fate has a different wheel spun for me.

The girl sits through the commotion despite her closeness. She is younger, much more so then the illicit age that occasionally floats into this den. Most hope to find something to fill the widening pit of their troubled teenaged souls. Most wind up in the deceitful arms of a smiling stranger, disappearing soon thereafter into the alleys and gutters of this heavenly city.

She is not here for that though. Her black abyss of curled locks shine out against the doll like skin. Her stunning beauty and youth have enticed a few of the more confident predators, but with a few whispers they scamper away as though her lyrics were the humming of the great demon itself.

She is an enigma to me.

I want her.

She is chosen.

I am so intoxicated with lust that I momentarily forget the orgy of violence that is perspiring only a few feet forward. A bottle whiffs by her seating and whatever her agenda entailed; it is no longer viable. She rises ghostly as she pulls the hood up on her Jet coat. she breezes through the danger silently and reaches the door. I put down a large bill and leave it along with my full drink for the busied busser.

The alleyway is cold and dark but against it's chill I can see the sweet silhouette. She is quick, frail fog floating with no echo. I peruse.

Her head never turns as I stalk stealthily. Then out of nothing she stumbles and curses, her surprised lyrical profanity pleasant pantering in my ear.

She knew I followed.

My little pretty.

You almost had me.

What other revelations, I wonder, do you hold for me?

I reach the angle of her disappearance and hear the metallic ratchet behind.

The Marv man has broken free of the fight and now stands at the entrance. I pull off my hat in salute letting him see me. His heavy boots pound on the wet and grime but by the time he reaches the corner my sweet Raven child has disappeared with me into the corridors of this brick forest.

We play her game.

We both delve deeper down, the occasional pathetic body, dead and alive, our only land marks to this maze.

"Where are we going pretty?"

She stumbles again as I call out to her in low pitch, and she stops.

Are we done so soon?

No. A quick step to the left and she disappears down a side.

Suddenly I am sick of this game. My stomach growls at the thought of her porcelain skin and noir clothing. My claws spurt out spontaneously as I step heavy around the corner and confront her.

It's a dead end and she stands defiantly against it, two large revolvers raised at me. Silver flashes in the wheels and despite my lust and languish I laugh.

"Pretty!" I hiss out from unsheathed fangs; "Deceitful beauty!"

The mist of enigma melts away and we both breath in the stench of our battle ground. Gunshots bounce off cement as another scene of death plays out elsewhere.

"Young beauty. Such a sweet flavour."

She smiles and pulls back the hammers.

The dead end is long and thin with no trash bins. This is a chosen ground.

"I have twelve sweet flavours for you right here monster."

Her voice sends a shiver of delight through me.

The moon wanes red above.

This is a blessed night.


End file.
